“ghost” my disguise is my only friend but at times it stabs me in the back too “caraphernelia” this portrait of beauty still remains upon my eyes the soft colors that dance around my sorrow and mock the ache in my chest the blinding lights of the heart you have broken and carved out have dimmed their glow to an absolute fog they too have fallen into the pits of regret and anguish just as I “damien” his eyes were clouds and the rain never stoppedRead more "RICKY WINTERS – 3 POEMS"
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John Anthony Fingleton – Moorlands
Moorlands
A soft wind blew across the moor,
And the heather danced in tune,
Some grouse flew up to test the air,
Then snuck back, into its sweet perfume.
A sparrow hawk circled low,
In anticipation of its prey,
Then attracted by some other thing;
It quickly flew away.
A beauty haunts this desolate place,
With its contours shaped by ice,
Where beasts can still roam wild and free –
A small touch of paradise.
Bracken on the moor-edge slopes,
Mixed flora in the glens,
All produce their radiant colours,
Without the help or seed of men.
The walkers-path is overgrown,
Not many came this year,
The changes in the weather,
Have brought many summer storms to Clare.
There are some patches now of topsoil,
I hadn’t noticed at first glance,
Just a small sign – like so many others –
That we are on our final chance.
Alexus Erin – MAKING SANDWICHES
Making Sandwiches
Me & my brain are making sandwiches for the first time in years
& I remember
I like sourdough. I wonder
whose hands made the bread & if this cooking,
this creation, is a kind of holiness. My brain laughs.
We’re having a sleepover on a school night
& I wonder
whose mother authorized it
By the grace of God
I am with my brain
& by the grace of God,
this brain’s a scrappy one
Which is to say, she is still sprinting: I’m impressed-
she did a lot of math this month. I joke that
she looks like she’s here
to eff the party up.
Brain tells Body (my body’s here too)
The first rule
of any effective love practice
is to synthesize its thoughtwork
with its bodywork: “Classic
substance-presence query, honeybee,” she sighs
& I know
that sigh was for me
I tell them, “First rule
of the big city
is to mind ya own damn business.” My body sets up
a cot at the foot of my bed
Gingerly removes her stockings, that they won’t rip
& I know
mishandling must be a violence
in which the body keeps score. She, of all people,
must be keeping score- I could stand
to learn a thing or two from this inclination
of tenderness, alone
My mouth, every morning,
famously reaching,
rooting ‘round any regional iteration of the daylight
To inhale a verbose evidence
& then exhale, like
my photosynthesis must be scheduled
to kick in any day now
As though this were the only thing
I knew how to do
Latha Kottapalli – An Ode to Black Gold
An Ode to Black Gold
Roots pulled from hiding
Soothe my soul like soup.
Into you, I empty their skins.
Crucifers crisped to crunch,
Laced with lemon, linger on my tongue.
Into you, I empty their stalks.
Egg whites whipped to stiff peaks
Greet my lips with kisses of meringue.
Into you, I empty their shells.
Coffee beans roasted to an aroma
Titillate my nose to chase the whiff.
Into you, I empty their grounds.
Drupes drooping from stems
Satiate my sweet tooth.
Into you, I empty their stones.
Autumn’s burst of hues,
A muse for my eyes.
Into you, I empty its leaf litter.
Into you, I empty all the refuse.
Off you stir and cook them to a new birth.
Lo and behold, Black Gold tumbles out.
Gold that crumbles to the touch.
Smells like the parched earth
When kissed by the first rain spells.
Gold that soaks up like a sponge, springs up
As the roots, stone fruits, and all that nourishes.
O Earth, your kindness knows no bounds.
Read more "Latha Kottapalli – An Ode to Black Gold"
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal – ON A SATURDAY NIGHT
On a Saturday Night
I set out
on a Saturday night
in late April
and the moon was shining.
I had no
one at my side and I
did not feel at
all lonely. The bright moon
lead the way.
I did not like going
to sleep. It was
near midnight, and Sunday
was about
to begin. I set out
in late April
to find something different.
Read more "Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal – ON A SATURDAY NIGHT"
Margaret Wagner – A GIRL ON HER BOARD
A GIRL ON HER BOARD
She rolled on the sidewalk at dusk,
the wheels of her skateboard whirring.
She bent without effort,
feet tucked under knees
in a pose I’d never seen.
Gray leggings popped out of pink high-tops. Maroon lips,
aubergine nail polish, metal hoops dangled from her ears.
Her chin rested on her long arm. One bare shoulder
slipped out of her oversized black cardigan. She flew
past cherry blossoms, absorbing cracks in equal measure.
Gliding in her own momentum,
never intending to forget her flow,
she followed her beat wherever it led her.
Was this the starting gate of her velocity
or the peak of it?
Read more "Margaret Wagner – A GIRL ON HER BOARD"JOHN GREY – 2 POEMS
THE TRUNK
I nudge aside some old poems
to get at the real poetry:
love letters from a former flame.
I’ve no idea why I’ve kept them
only that I’m a hoarder,
even of affection.
There’s something of nostalgia
to them,
like the Marvel comics
in very good condition,
or the copy of Sports Illustrated
with Larry Bird on the cover,
celebrating a championship.
The writing is neat,
the passion likewise,
nothing, I’m sure,
like the long-trashed missives
I sent in response.
Reading between lines is called for.
But, to be honest,
I find more neatness,
only it’s invisible.
From memory,
there was no great passion
between the two of us.
It’s what comes of listening to Yes together.
And decking ourselves out
in bell-bottoms.
But they’re part of history.
And, to my mind,
must be preserved.
But I throw in a few
more useless items,
bury those letters deeper
going forward.
It’s enough to know they’re there.
No place else would have them.
~
THE CIGARETTE LONG AFTER
A double downer:
I feel dirty as soot,
sheets smell like dumpster fires.
And here,
on a motel side table,
one cigarette burns a long, neglected ash.
No need to smoke it.
This room’s like a cigarette
with me cocooned inside it.
You and I shared this roadside hideaway.
Years ago.
Before there were flat-screen TV’s.
Before there was flat anything.
Now I lie on a lumpy mattress.
staring up at the nicotine-stained ceiling.
My teeth grind the grit
of what was once desire.
Read more "JOHN GREY – 2 POEMS"MILES LISS – 2 POEMS
Aliens
On this mountain,
we built likenesses of ourselves
as human beings.
We sent them down to the valley to mingle
with the townspeople.
We went to Dairy Queen, ordered
a Blizzard, bought Megadeth
at the music store, and visited Army gun shows
that exhibited tanks and other
war machines.
We pretended
to be one of them, for this and only this
made them happy.
We walked into banks
instead of robbing them.
We took out accounts in fake American names
and sipped free cucumber water.
We went to the movies
with customers
carrying tubs of popcorn and 22 liters
of Coke, and pretended we were beautiful
for two hours.
As we rode back up the mountain,
the radio played a country song
about football, pick-up trucks and rebel flags.
We were made to understand these things
meant home.
An SUV drove across from us, with
an American family. In the front,
a husband and wife took a look
at us. I tried to read the husband’s lips.
I’m pretty sure he was saying, “Stay
away from our borders.”
In the back, a little freckle-faced boy
with a coonskin cap fired a pellet gun
at his kid sister—imagined killing her.
~
Monuments
The Washington Monument
shoots up at night like a giant rocket ship to the moon.
The Lincoln Memorial glows majestically.
Dead Presidents stare out through stone eyes,
their heroic expressions rendered masterfully.
Arlington Cemetery overflows
with soldiers who died in their honor.
Rats in subway grates
raid garbage bins for half-eaten Chipotle burritos.
Tourists walk past homeless men
whose hands are swollen
like catcher’s mitts.
A new Whole Foods opens around the corner.
Liquor stores sell lottery tickets
and menthol cigarettes.
At Five Guys, a family huddles
over burgers and Cajun fries, peanut shells on the floor
swept away by Central American teenagers.
Their pimply-faced son
watches the teens work while he chews.
Read more "MILES LISS – 2 POEMS"VERN FEIN – AUNT DeDe
AUNT DeDe
is dying to no one’s surprise.
88 and has been failing,
survived Parkinson’s for 15.
Meaningless numbers,
just like the spate of emails
and texts about her pending demise.
There will be no gathering
at her request.
Would be no gathering anyway.
Virtually everyone who would come
have had their own funerals
or live too far away.
The texts elicit tiny pebbles of sorrow,
barely a ripple in our ponds.
She had a vibrant life,
a noted audiologist,
world traveler with her doctor husband.
Then one daughter committed suicide,
another succumbed to a painful disease.
For that Aunt Dede is remembered.
Not her life—those deaths.
Oh, she was also afraid of cats.
Hibernating away at the edge of a Wisconsin burg,
she and her husband dealt in antiques
until they turned into them.
Today no one gave more than a sad
passing nod in their texts
to her going.
TIM STALEY – A POEM FOR LANCE
DOOMSDAY JOGGING
(for Lance Leonard Gambrell)
Imagine a book
open to the black
depth of the universe.
Death is a wave of sound
you can’t wave off.
Sometimes instead of Lance dying
I imagine the tracks of a train
Vaselined and lit from behind
like an X-ray.
Sometimes instead of him dying
I imagine a steel-blue deity with 18 arms.
I guess 18 arms is how many arms it takes
to headlock something wrong.
I’m likely to round up a common stain
into a regional one or worse: a personal one.
The catch of crying is crying
kills bacteria, releases toxins,
improves vision.
Every white, elastomeric rooftop
in this desert town is haunted
by the dusty fingerprint of rain.
So much dust and blood work
between each papillary ridge.
The desert takes its time
showing us things die.
I was walking the acequia with my daughter
when she told me polar bears
have clear hair.
I was walking the acequia with my daughter
when a jellyfish of photons
came smearing across the tracks,
softening the steel.
I had a vision I went to see him
near the end in a hospital bed.
The walls were smoking
and we were playing dominoes
on a swiveling tray. It was horrifying,
I was still trying to win.
Lance writes poems on pizza boxes.
He gets to stay alive
a little while longer.
Last night tight ropes of light
crossed behind his eyes.
I wasn’t there. I was at home
looking for a dollar.
Last night in the pocket
of a yellow pillow, the tooth fairy
found my daughter’s 11th tooth.
The fairy came with a dollar,
dressed in mirage
except for his flip flops.
I heard in Mexico it’s a rat that comes;
it’s a rat that trades your tooth for cash.
I was walking the acequia with my daughter
when I told her polar bears have clear hair
because the air around those hairs
scatters light of every color
in every direction.
You could tell by her face,
the laws of light
were a let down.
Imagine a book
open on a table
only instead of pages
the black depth of the universe.
Now imagine
sunlight all spread out
on that same table.
Can you see him on a Tuesday in February?
Can you see him leaning
into the needles of wind like a vein?
Can you see him?
He’s walking there with me down Boutz
toward Avenida de Mesilla.
His curls so blond
they mirage.
